


Degausser

by cumberperson



Series: Surrender [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Rape, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberperson/pseuds/cumberperson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot based off of Degausser by Brand New.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Degausser

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Degausser, Brand New, or Sherlock Holmes. All of these things belong to their original owners.

_Goodbye to sleep._

 

Sherlock often had problems with insomnia, but he didn’t usually have to deal with it when John was in his bed. Now, of course, with forty percent more thoughts crowding his mind palace and infinite effects of the act committed half an hour prior being contemplated all at once, Sherlock was a 1:2 cocktail of confusion and emptiness.

 

_I think this staying up is exactly what I need._

 

John lay awake beside him, arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and face buried in Sherlock’s chest. He’d apologised, of course, a while after, but then pretended to sleep, as if Sherlock wouldn’t know he was faking.

 

Sherlock was just as bad, though, pretending he didn’t know John was awake, and pretending he didn’t want to talk about what had happened between them. He guessed that he really did rather think about it by himself than aloud with the very person who had committed the crime.

 

_Well, take apart your head._

_Take apart the counting, and the flock it has bred._

 

Sherlock was trying to understand John’s actions, trying to figure out what John could have possibly wanted out of him that he couldn’t have gotten without consent. Sherlock put himself in John’s place, as if his mindset was anything like his companion’s. It wasn’t.

 

Sherlock knew for certain that John had no intention of using Sherlock as an experiment, and if it was simply to satisfy his sexual needs, he would have gone to one of the women he’d courted. The more Sherlock constructed and considered scenarios justifying John’s actions, the more he started to doubt himself, and the more he wanted to know.

 

_Goodbye to love,_

_Well it’s a ride that will push you up_

_Right against the wall._

 

Sherlock had been doubting himself more and more lately, concepts of his own mind and behaviours changing constantly, becoming more and more complex and conflicting. Sherlock had thought far too much about love and trust, and what those things could mean to a sociopath.

 

His love for John, which was definitely existent, was made up of mostly gratitude and protective instinct, but was spotted with trust and adoration. He didn’t show it the same way John did or the same way Mrs. Hudson might. Sherlock, regardless of how little he did know about love, was certain that rape was not synonymous with love.

 

It was questionable, he knew, that John loved him at all, but he had been leaning toward the idea for several weeks, since John had begun sitting closer to him on the couch and touching him when it wasn’t necessary and sleeping in his bed and, most recently, kissing him on the mouth or anywhere.

 

The only thing Sherlock saw as a possibility was love at that point, but the question of why someone in love would defile the subject of their love was unanswerable.

 

_Chew it up and swallow it._

 

Sherlock didn’t want to ruminate over what had happened, but wanted to get it the hell out of his head. Just when he thought he’d deleted it from his brain, it would come back up, and he couldn’t remove it.

 

He wondered if that just meant it was incredibly important.

 

_You’re brought back, but you’re running._

_I’ll find sleep in the end tonight._

 

Sherlock shifted for the first time since John had pretended to fall asleep. “John.”

 

The word was hard for Sherlock to say, and tasted as bitter as John’s lips had when they were forced against Sherlock’s mouth.

 

John didn’t answer, but tensed against Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock found himself second guessing what he was about to say.

 

“John.” he repeated, pulling himself out from under John’s arm. John let out a sigh before responding.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock cleared his throat before asking.

 

John rolled over to face away from Sherlock. “I don’t know.”

 

“You know.”

 

“I don’t, Sherlock.” John answered.

 

_I can’t shake this little feeling,_

_I’ll never get anything right._

 

“Is that your way of saying it was for no reason?” Sherlock asked.

 

“No, I just-” John looked bothered by the question, unable to formulate a response that Sherlock would accept.

 

Frankly, that made sense. The action was unacceptable on its own.

 

_Goodbye you liar,_

_Well you sipped from the cup but you don’t own up to anything._

 

Sherlock sat up in bed, and the moonlight that filtered through the half-open blinds illuminated his pale skin, showing off the bruises that John had left. “You don’t have a reason, John? Get out of my bed.”

 

John swallowed and sat up, as well. “I love you.”

 

To Sherlock, it sounded more like an excuse than a declaration. And now that the words were embedded in every stone building up his mind palace along with what Sherlock decided to refer to as The Event, they were tainted.

 

“Get out.” Sherlock said with more conviction.

 

John did as Sherlock said, rolling out of bed and pulling on his boxers, which had been tossed to the floor aimlessly before John had pounded into Sherlock, splitting him open.

 

Sherlock found it funny that he responded better to “get out” when he was referring to his bed.

 

_Then you think you will inspire._

 

“Sherlock-” he began after stopping in the door.

 

“Go, John.”

 

_Take apart your head_

_Take apart the demon, in the attic to the left._

 

Sherlock locked the door behind John. He didn’t want a repeat.

 

He lay back down, closing his eyes and wrapping himself in his bed sheets, pushing all his thoughts into the attic of his mind palace to come back to later. His mind palace’s attic contained only thoughts too hellish for even Sherlock.

 

He did fall asleep eventually, but ended up being unconscious for only two hours.

 

_Goodbye, my love._

 

The next morning, Sherlock was seated on the couch in the living room, waiting for John to come downstairs from his own room, which had been neglected since he and Sherlock had begun sleeping together.

 

“Morning, John.” Sherlock said when John walked by, startling him.

 

John stopped, though, swearing under his breath. “Morning, Sherlock.”

 

“We’re talking about this, now.” Sherlock told him. “I’m kicking you out.”

 

John narrowed his eyes. “It’s my flat, too, Sherlock-”

 

“I’m kicking you out.” Sherlock repeated. “You’re not living here anymore.”

 

“Sherlock. I’m on the contract. You can’t kick me out.”

 

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to tell Mrs. Hudson of the situation. She’d certainly side with me.” Sherlock said clearly. “You have two weeks to find somewhere else to go.”

 

“Neither of us have the income to pay the rent for a flat on our own.” John insisted.

 

“You should have thought of that.”

 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?” A sliver of desperation was evident in his tone.

 

“I want you to leave.” Sherlock answered.

 

He’d had hours to compose himself before John came downstairs, but he still felt unprepared to handle this. The more sentimental part of him, which had grown since he had met John, wanted to forgive John, but the more logical remainder needed him to leave.

 

_I’ll never say anything right._

 

“I don’t want to leave, Sherlock.” John said, sitting on the couch beside him.

 

“I need you to leave.” Sherlock said, sounding a little more frustrated than he’d intended. “I need time.”

 

“Then I’ll give you time.” John promised, putting his hand on Sherlock’s knee, only to have his wrist slapped.

 

Sherlock could only think about the way those hands had gripped his hips hard enough to bruise and pushed him down into the bed, and the way John had the audacity to hold him with those hands after what he’d done.

 

“Go out for a few hours, John.” Sherlock said, scooting away from him.

 

“How long?”

 

“A few hours.” he repeated.

 

Sherlock got high off his arse as soon as he was sure John had left, relapsing for the first time in six months. His arm, now dotted with tiny holes from where he’d shot up with heroin.

 

While he was stoned, he felt his mind clear of important thoughts and fill with only trivial things. He was euphoric, and the empty feeling left after John had filled him up was gone.

  
It was bliss and relief and exactly what Sherlock needed.

 

What Sherlock didn’t need was John getting back before Sherlock came down from his high. John was holding him and apologising to him and kissing him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and whispering sweet nothings in his ear that Sherlock almost believed.

 

Sherlock smelled perfume on him, but John lacked the general sweaty, unpleasant smell of sex. He’d been with a woman, but they hadn’t done anything sexual.

 

In his state, Sherlock didn’t push John away or scold him for being with someone else, but allowed himself to be held and touched, even though John tended to put too much pressure on his bruises and made the physical pain a lot worse than it had been.

 

_Well take me, take me back to your bed._

_I love you so much that it hurts my head._

 

Sherlock must have been a little bit too nice to John, because before he knew it, John was asking Sherlock to bed, and Sherlock was letting John take him, and Sherlock was so confused but couldn’t formulate the words to say no.

 

He couldn’t say no when John undressed him slowly, even though he had plenty of time to object, and he couldn’t say no when John’s mouth was on Sherlock’s, murmuring the extent of his love and reminding Sherlock that he meant everything, and he couldn’t say no when John was rolling on a condom or when he slid into Sherlock.

 

He couldn’t say no until John was done, and then it was all he could say.

_Say I don’t mind you under my skin,_

_I’ll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in._

 

“No, John, no, no, no, no, no-” Sherlock was begging, but it was way too late, and nothing could be done about it. Sherlock, defiled once again, was curled into his rapist’s chest, his mind too cluttered now with trivial things to focus on important things.

 

The high he’d so desperately wanted had ended with a startling low that felt like bungee jumping without a chord.

 

But once he had the brain for logic, he realised that he hadn’t said no. Not this time. He hadn’t told John to stop, and thus, it was not legally considered rape.

 

He didn’t have the case he needed.

 

_When we were made, we were set apart._

_Life is a test and I get bad marks._

 

John tried in vain to comfort Sherlock, who was unconsolable. Sherlock’s head felt like it was going to explode. He was overwhelmed by the thoughts he’d tried so hard to push out of his brain for just a short time with the drug. All there was was the unsuppressed sadness he never realised he could feel.

 

Sherlock tried to get away from John, squirming and pushing John’s arm away and repeating the word “no” until his throat hurt.

 

He’d begun crying somewhere in the midst of this, and he tried desperately to stop, but nothing worked. John got out of Sherlock’s bed after what seemed like hours, kissing his forehead and apologising to him, as if that made it any better.

 

Sherlock pulled the sheets over his head, and John finally took the hint.

 

_Now some saint got the job of writing down my sins,_

_The storm is coming, the storm is coming in._

 

Sherlock felt unbelievably threatened by John, and it showed for days after The Second Event. He never brought it up with John, and didn’t hold it over John’s head that he wanted to live in the flat alone anymore. It was small gestures between both of them that made their relationship, whatever relationship that may have been, strained and awkward.

 

John tended to reach a little farther for Sherlock’s hand, which wouldn’t grip John’s half as tightly, and Sherlock tended to pull a little farther away after every kiss, or every embrace, or any opportunity for John to initiate something Sherlock didn’t want to handle. Sherlock only went out when he felt like it, which wasn’t often, and John was starting to panic about money.

 

He needed to get Sherlock out of the flat. He needed Sherlock to go back to solving cases and bringing in some measly amount of income, or they were going to go hungry or get kicked out.

 

_Well you’re my favourite bird and when you sing,_

_I really do wish that you’d wear my ring._

 

John, filled with the worst kind of desperation- the impulsive kind- gave Sherlock his mother’s ring and asked for his hand.

 

Sherlock stared at the ring John had slid onto one of his narrow fingers, perplexed. “Why would I marry you?”

 

John swallowed. That wasn’t the reaction he’d prepared for, Sherlock knew. “Because I’m in love with you, and I think you’re in love with me, too.”

 

Sherlock took the ring off and pressed it back into John’s palm. “I’m a sociopath, John. Don’t you know that?”

 

“Of course I know that, Sherlock, but we’ve been-” John clutched the ring, the metal digging into his skin.

 

“I don’t think you understand, John. I’m not in love with you, and I won’t ever be. This, between us, is only infatuation.” Sherlock didn’t even know if he was lying. He hated not knowing.

 

_No matter what they say, I am still the king._

_The storm is coming, the storm is coming in._

 

“Sherlock, you’re lying to me.”

 

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock put his hands in his lap before impulse could take over and impel him to snatch the ring back.

 

“I just know, Sherlock. You love me. You’re in love with me.”

 

“So what?” Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

 

“So marry me.”

 

Sherlock took in a deep breath before looking him straight in the eye and speaking coldly, “I don’t want to marry a rapist, John.”

 


End file.
